


Into the Moor

by musingsofashley



Series: To walk with Old Ones [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Cernunnos!Sherlock, Devon myths, Gen, Horror Elements, Supernatural Elements, celtic mythology!lock, fawn!lock, wishthounds, yeth hound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1935030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingsofashley/pseuds/musingsofashley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson finds himself lacking purpose since being invalidated home from the military due to his injuries. It is with a trip to Dartmoor, however, and the strangers he will meet there, that he will find himself questioning not only what is real in this world, but also his role in it. (Part one in what will soon be a multi-storied retelling of BBC Sherlock).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/gifts).



> I was given the choice of several prompts by my giftee Khorazir, and the one that stood out to me the most was fawn!lock with a celtic mythology twist. I hope Khorazir enjoys it!

One never knows where the road might take him or her. We set out, slowly amassing a certain view of how the world turns and a standard by which we live by. Whether we choose to follow the prescribed set of moral codes(mores) and beliefs handed down to us by family and social group or strike out with our own carefully formulated ideas, such ideas can prove steadfast and difficult to change or be eradicated... Or so a younger John Watson would have believed.

Now, he sits in the spare bedroom in his sister's flat, his few possessions hardly leaving a personal note amongst the detritus cluttering the feminine space. He's spent much of the past few months questioning why he even came here, considering their tumultuous relationship, what with her barely being able to be considered a recovering alcoholic. Looking around brings it home; he has nowhere else to go.

He has a duffel bag of clothes that he still won't fully unpack, a thrice-damned cane (courtesy of a leg that only possesses a supposed 'psychosomatic' limp), a wallet, a used laptop and mobile... and his gun. The gun, which he kept hidden from even himself inside the bedside table drawer.

The war had left its indelible mark, not only on his skin, with the dark shadows under his eyes from sleepless nights, but with the persistent tremor that haunted his once steady hands. Once a doctor who relied on that steadiness to perform in his profession, a gunshot to the shoulder had put him out of commission and the limp had been the nail in the coffin for his time in the military. Invalidated. Sent back to a place he no longer quite meshed into.

He felt chewed up and spit out again- as if the desert had consumed part of him and left him less of a person; less of himself. He drifted through each day as if he were a remnant of his former self, merely an echo waiting to fade away. Each day he felt that the time he would simply no longer *be* seemed ever closer.

"John? We'd best be leaving in a moment if we're to get you there on time."

John faced the door briefly and stood, hand clasping the cane firmly as he opened the bedside table drawer for his wallet. For a second, his eyes lingered on the partially revealed Sig Sauer, but that moment passed and he allowed himself to close the drawer once more.

"How's your blog going?"  
Thirty minutes later and John is sitting in Ella Thompson's office in yet another therapy session, being dragged from his distracted contemplation of her clock. He surreptitiously adjusted his posture while trying to feign an interested and alert expression on his face.

"Mmm? Ah, yes? Good. Good, it's going great."

The look his therapist gives him at that pronouncement is decidedly unconvinced.

"You haven't started it at all, have you?"

John grimaced, before a rather wry expression crossed his face.

"Don't much see the point. Nothing interesting ever happens to me."

Ella scrunched up her brow in studies concern, leaning forward slightly in her chair.

"I'm sure *something* happens to you during your day-"

John scoffed and scrubbed his left hand briefly across the planes of his face and turned away from her briefly, before facing her once more.

"No. No, I don't think so. Not anymore."

She set her notebook down, brow furrowed, lines of tight script temporarily ignored as she considered her patient sitting before her. Here was a man used to being useful, used to a much more active lifestyle and excitement level than the city streets and tedium of day to day life were giving him. What could possibly be an impetus for him to begin to take steps onto his road of recovery?

A small idea took root and with it in mind she said-

"She bloody said I should take a trip, a holiday or the like. Get out into the wild and have an adventure or some such nonsense. Like a sodding holiday is going to do me a spot of good at this point."

"Huh" his sister leaned back in her chair, twisting her face into one of contemplative agreement.

"You know, that might not actually be a bad idea, John."

John tosses his hands in the air in exasperation.

"Brilliant! Really. And why would that be, Mmm?"

She tsked tetchily.

"No need for that. Think about it."  
She leaned forward earnestly, punctuating her words with a jab of her index finger.

"You're bored out of your mind here. You need to get out of this flat for a bit, get a change of scenery. You need some sort of excitement or activity to keep you going. You always have. I can even think of the perfect place for you to go," she said, leaning back in living room chair smugly.

"And where," John asked testily, "would that be?"

A self-satisfied smile crossed her face. She looked akin to a fox about to pounce on an unsuspecting chicken, with her short messy red hair sweeping around her face like a corona of flame.

"Dartmoor, of course," she pronounced, as if bestowing some bit of great news.

John stiffened imperceptibly, once trembling hands suddenly, without any notice from the two siblings, going still.

"Dartmoor? That's in Devon, isn't it?"

Both of them startled, Harry more obviously than john, as Clara- Harry's partner- entered the room. The chipper brunette smiled warmly at them both as she walked over to Harry, pressing a quick kiss to her hair as she rested a hip against her.

"So, what are you two talking about",she queried, but John's attention was elsewhere, mind centered on memories of misty moorland from a childhood camping trip, until Harry's voice broke through the fog he was descending into.

"I'm sorry, what?"  
Harry snorted inelegantly at him, rolling her eyes and looking pointedly to Clara, as if this was an oft occurring scenario-him fading out of one of their conversations.

"I was just telling Clara about how you thought you saw a monster that last trip we took with da and mum."

"Yeth hound," he stated almost absentmindedly.

Silence. Both of them stared at him in consternation before Clara asked bemusedly, "A *what*?"

John licked his lips and looked back and forth at the two of them before answering, trying to garner their reactions to this change in the conversation.

"A yeth hound. It's what the locales called it.

Despite himself, John felt his hands close up into fists in his lap- white knuckled and rigid. Harry, unobservant to this particular detail, just laughed and nudged her partner's hip with her shoulder.

"What was it again, John? Some sort of ghost dog without a head?"

Clara visibly shuddered, crossing herself compulsively, visibly repelled by the idea. Harry just laughed raucously at her partner's discomfort, clapping one square-bones hand on her younger brother's nearest shoulder.

"Johnny, here, came running up to us as if the hounds of hell were after him, bawling his head off and mumbling about that dog. He must have listened to someone hashing out one of the local legends before we hit the trails or something. We never found sign of any dogs on that trail."

John just gave Clara a strained smile when she turned to look at him, but it faded away, as insubstantial as smoke when he glanced at his sister, eyes flinty and hard.

A clap of Clara's hands and her brisk, effervescent presence broke the tension.

"I'd best be getting supper on if we're all going to eat at a reasonable hour. I've had quite enough take-out this week, thank you."

Harry grinned at her cheekily and even John drummed up a smile for the brunette, despite the anger still simmering away inside him. As she turned away, she paused one last time, hesitating.

"Why did you recommend Dartmoor, Harry? With it having so much superstition and those kind of memories attached to it?"

John let his gaze rest on his sister, wondering the same thing himself. He was slightly surprised to see the warm smile on his sister's face as she answered.

"That's the point, love. It's beautiful and it's full of mystery- with an imagination like his, he won't have a chance to be bored. Just what the doctor ordered!"

She grinned mischievously at her brother and he couldn't help but laugh and shake his head at her. As Clara left the room, John started to rise from his own chair stiffly, hand tightly clasped around his cane, when his sister lightly touched his shoulder.

"Can we talk for a moment, in the other room?"

John studied her face for a moment, seeing something in her eyes that made him nod shortly before leading the way out of earshot. Once they had made it into the adjoining space, Harry faced her brother, worry writ large upon her face.

"I know it's not any of my business, but I saw you looking at ads for flats the other day-"

"Harry-" John tried to cut her off, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"Look, we told you that you were free to stay as long as you like. You're barely back home and adjusted yet. I just- I worry about you."

He faced her, muscles clenching in his jaw, and carefully considered his words.

"I can't do this- here- any more Harriet."

Harry wrinkled her brow in confusion.

"What?"

He sighed.

"You're drinking again-", Harry visibly started, mouth opening as if to say something and he waved her off. "No, don't make any excuses. You and Clara need time to focus on you two's relationship. And you need to get a handle back on the drinking issue now, before you drive her away. You might think she hasn't noticed, but Harry," and he looked her dead in the eyes this time, trying to impress upon her how serious he was, "she has noticed. She's worried about it. And I don't think she likes the woman you turn into when you've had too much to drink."

Harry sniffed.

"I haven't been having *that* much."

John projected his best glare at her, leaving her visibly and suitably cowed.

"I'll work on it," she offered instead, after a moment's lengthy pause. "But it would be nice to have you around. You always know what to do."

John closed his eyes briefly and point at his leg.

"I have enough to deal with as it is, Harry. Sort yourself out and I'll do the same, yeah?"

Harry gave a watery laugh but nodded.

"At least take the bloody vacation. The moor would do you some good."

John rolled his eyes, but was spared from comment when Clara's voice rang out, asking Harry for help in the kitchen.

Supper wasn't nearly the stilted affair he was anticipating it to be. Despite John giving fairly monosyllabic replies to his sister, Clara managed to keep the conversation flowing while she chattered on about her work. It was as if the sheer force of her good nature and positive attitude could bridge any troubled waters between the Watsons. No more talk came up about either Harry's drinking or the recommended vacation, but John was well aware throughout the meal that Harry's drink stayed decidedly water. A certain level of comfort came from that fact, and he pipped off to bed later, expecting to drop off easily. He should have known better. Sleep did not come easily to him these days, though it was not the war that was waiting for him as he drifted off to sleep. Not this time.

Crossroads. The blue of a cloudless sky swimming vast above his upturned face. His hands- a little boy's hands- push away the branches twining across the path before him as he explores this little side track, his father and sister's voices a jumble murmur to the distant left. He'd wandered off the other path, eyes fixed on the dizzying peeks of blue and filtered golden light streaming through the boughs of the trees, little boy mind ever curious and filled with wonder at such new sights. He was a traveler, and adventurer, he was seeing lost lands-

Crack!

Something broke in the undergrowth behind him. A sense of dread filled him; he knew what was coming, but memories stop for no man and that little face whipped around in the direction of the noise, expecting a parent or another visitor.

Oh- _God_. It was a black dog, not unlike a hunting dog his uncle had owned, but where the head should be, where eyes am a mouth should be pointed towards him, was nothing. A cavernous blackness, reaching into its chest cavity. A high pitched whine left little John as he froze in his tracks. He could hear it _breathing_ \- how could it breathe- and it took steps towards him, tail wagging as if it wanted to play, making gorge rise up the back of his throat. Run, the elder self supplied. Don't stay. Just run. But the boy lingered, doe eyed and frozen by the monstrous sight before him and then- and then...

A keening wail rises up from its chasm, unearthly and cold, rolling down the child's spine and giving his feet wings. It was all that was needed to finally jolt john awake from his nightmare- memory- but even awake, he could swear that the echoes of that wail lingered on in that bedroom. The locales said that the wailing of the hound foretold of death. His father had died not a week later.

He spent the last few hours of the evening tossing and turning, string mostly at the ceiling, seeing that cavernous space where the hound's head should have been. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, he got up and turned on his laptop, opening up a new post on his blog.

'You win, Ella. I'm taking that holiday after all.'

Bad enough he couldn't sleep due to the war. He'd be damned if childhood memories would keep him from sleep as well. It looked like that trip to Dartmoor was in order after all.


	2. Hunter's Chorus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter a familiar face- to the audience, any ways, and the point where the au truly begins.

After a few days hurried planning and the acquisition of train tickets, John had set forth to Dartmoor, finding his way back to the small village he had visited in his youth. He was able to find a small inn/pub fairly quickly called The Cross Keys, and briskly made his way inside, eager to get a room for the evening- and hopefully the next few days as well. The two Innkeepers were working steadily behind the bar, the redhead continuing on with prepping the ingredients for their vegetarian meals for other customers while his partner engaged John in small talk, handing him both a receipt and a room key.

"Where are ye visitin from?", the innkeeper asked, friendly smile creasing his weathered face.

John smiled back in return, tucking his receipt and key in his pocket.

"I've just taken a train out of London and am planning to be here for a few days."

"Ah, London. We have another Londoner visitin here, back in that corner yonder. He works as a DI for Scotlan' Yard. 'pparently, he's on holiday, though you wouldn' know it."

John raises his eyebrows, prompting the innkeeper to continue.

"He, uh, got a might bit irritated with us due to the taller bloke with him."

"Oh?" John shifted slightly, slanting a quick glance at the corner, spotting the man in question, before looking back at the older man before him, sensing something of a story to this. The innkeeper shuffled around a bit, obviously embarrassed and discomforted, rubbing one hand up the back of his neck, before continuing.

"You've heard of the local legends, yeah? The hound of the moor? Black dogs, all that rot? We had a dog on the moor, trying to boost tourism and all? They found out about it. We got rid of it, but poor Henry over there," and here he pointed to a lonely table in the middle of the pub, occupied by a nervous looking young man with bags under his eyes, "swears he keeps seeing one on the moor. Poor lad’s gone around the bend. He was never right since he was a child. His father was supposedly killed by the legendary hound that made Baskerville famous.

John turned once more to look at the scruffy morose looking young man staring fixedly into the drink sitting before him. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. The two men in the corner keep eyeing him, this Lestrade and the unknown tall gentleman he’s conversing- or rather arguing- with. John, despite himself- finds his curiousity piqued.

John cleared his throat, gesturing towards the DI and his associate in the corner.  
"I think I'll have a quick chat with them; see if they have any more news about the moor-"

The redheaded partner of the innkeeper aw quick to pipe up at this"We did get rid of the dog", while the start of an offended expression formed on his more grey partner's face. John quickly held up a hand, a quick head shake and best expression put forth as he said, "oh, I'm not saying you didn't. I just had... An interesting time of it on the moor a while back. Just want to get the lay of the land. That sort of thing."

"Ah". The two men looked at each other, no longer looking offended but now wearing twin expressions that clearly stated they thought they had a potential nutter on their hands. When they turn back to face him, twin smiles greet him, while they cheerily wish him a great evening and trip out onto the moors. John nods in return, "ta" thrown over his shoulder as he makes his way to the corner of the large room, where the grey-haired DI is having a slightly heated conversation with the rakishly thin man “towering over” him. As it was early in the afternoon, the pub was busy, but not overly so. He was able to weave his way through the tables easily, dull murmur of conversation a gentle flood of background sound as he angled himself towards the corner. As he nears the duo lurking by the fireplace, he begins to catch snatches of their conversation without even meaning to.

“As usual, you see but do not observe! The dog of the innkeepers was a problem, yes, but not the real one! There is something out there on the moor, preying on these people’s fears. This Henry Knight fellow, he has seen it… and it has just as clearly seen him. Whatever it is, it will not just stop at being a legend to scare the local children or travellers. Mark my words, Lestrade, this situation is about to escalate and quickly at that.”

Lestrade ran his hand through his hair in frustration, exasperation clear as day on his face.

“Blimey, Sherlock, can’t I even have a holiday? This isn’t even my precinct!”

Sherlock just gave him a pointed look, to which the DI just sighed and planted his fists on his hips.

“Fine, fine. Proof, though. I can’t do anything, Sherlock, without it.”

John, by this point, is nearly standing next to the two men. He's just about to speak to them, when the world begins to go slightly... Askew.

For a moment, John's vision swims, and the taller man appears... Different. Off, somehow. He sees, briefly, a shadow of two great shapes extending from the man’s hair, only to twist off into divergent paths… an impression of grand antlers, before he blinks and the shadow is gone. The man appears, once more, normal if not slightly eccentric in his Belstaff coat and posh clothing. John can’t help but slow down and pause, squinting at the man, shaking his head slightly as if to clear his vision. Sherlock notices him out of the corner of his eye and turns, one eyebrow raised in inquiry.

“Can we help you?”

Embarrassed at having been caught at essentially staring and disgruntled at the momentary hallucination, John clears his throat.   
“Ah, yes, the innkeepers were mentioning that you both had been out on the moor and would know if it was safe to go out there? They had mentioned some strange things going on and-” 

Again, his vision distorts, this time centering on the dark-haired man’s coat. Patches of moss/lichen seem to bloom across it, and when John shakes his head again and tries to direct his attention to the man’s face, the eyes staring back at him are no longer human. A pronounced lining marked from the corner of his eyes down into where the bridge of his nose began and his eyes were fully an intense bright blue, dark pupil expanding and contracting in the center. The effect was animalistic and intense, stripping John of all words and causing this Sherlock character to smirk at him before normality once more faded over him like a dream. 

“You’re not as blind as the average visitor. Afghanistan or Iraq?

“I’m sorry, what?”  
“Afghanistan or Iraq? I can tell by your posture that you were a soldier and your tan points to being abroad. Factor in the current wars- which is it?”

“Afghanistan- that’s just.”  
John turns to Lestrade, who just shrugs and kind of tosses one hand as if to say, what can you do?

“Yeah, he’s always like that.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and seems to almost brace himself but John just breathes out a "brilliant", almost despite himself.

Sherlock's head whips around, eyes flaring temporarily before narrowing in curiosity.

"What did you say?"

John licks his lips and shrugs.

"That was... Brilliant. How you figured that out."

"Hm. That's not what people normally say."

Lestrade snorts at that, a wry grin turning up the corners of his mouth. John looks back an forth between the two of them, before asking, "what do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

A chuckle broke free from John at that, causing this Sherlock character to grin. He extended a hand to John, introducing himself. 

"And you are?"

"John Watson. And," John turned to the DI, who held out a hand as well to shake in return. 

"Gregory Lestrade. I take it the two behind the counter already told you what I do?"

"Get rid of fake legends?," he said cheekily. 

Lestrade just groaned while Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'boring'.

"Not usually, but apparently I do on my holiday."

"And on that note I best be off," Sherlock stated, clapping his hands together once definitively before grabbing a teal scarf and wrapping it around his throat in neat, economical motions.

"I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again, John Watson. Lestrade."

And with one final nod, he was strolling off, long legs eating up the floor space a sinuously wound his way through the other occupants of the pub. 

Lestrade watched him stride off with something akin to find exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning to John. "You were saying something about the moor?"

"Mm, yes. Has- there been anything strange going on recently?"

Lestrade studied him briefly, seeking to consider something. "When you looked at Sherlock, what did you see?"

John blinked, going still. "I'm sorry? Was I supposed to see... Anything?" 

Lestrade exhaled breathily through his nose, lips twisting slightly, before shaking his head. 

"I'd say, for you", and here Lestrade smiled, but it was a smile that was too big for his face, something inherently lupine and feral about it. "For you, I'd be careful on the moor. Not everything that walks out there is as it appears." And then the smile became human once more, friendly and safe. John was left standing there with goosebumps breaking out across his skin as the DI left, mentioning a date with a strong cup of coffee.

Much was amiss about this place, even more so than when he was a child. He lifted his hand, checking the state of its tremor out of habit. To his surprise, he found his nerves, for the first time since being sent back home from the war, perfectly steady. He took a breath, closed his hand up into a fist, and readied himself internally for the days ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what Sherlock looks like when the glamour falls away.  
> [](http://photobucket.com/)


	3. The Broken Knight

He popped up to his room and left the few possessions he brought with him there, except for his gun. After the events of the afternoon, he decided to go with his gut and tuck it away in his coat (back of pants?), giving him a sense of security after so much strangeness. As he wandered back into the main room of the pub, trying to think if he would be able to stomach any of the cuisine, he spotted once more the Henry Knight fellow everyone seemed to be discussing. 

The stressed looking man appeared to be nursing the same drink still, huddled there in his sweater and genuinely looking worse for wear. John hesitated, studying the forlorn-looking man, before throwing hesitation to the wind and making his way towards him. Not only did he want a clue as to what was going on, but he was a doctor for Christ's sake. Therapist he might not be, but there was a quality in him that still needed to reach out and heal. In this instance, perhaps, he could do some good.

"Henry Knight?"

Henry looked up, eyes questioning as he spotted John. John gave him a nod an held out one hand.

"John Watson. I've been hearing about some peculiar things about the moor and if it isn't too much trouble, I thought I would ask you about it."

Henry swallowed and looked away for a moment, but then nodded to himself and shook John's hand, a tired smile on his face.

"Of course, here. Please take a seat."

Over the course of an hour John learned a little about Henry's story, about how when he was nine (?) his father was killed by a gigantic hound out in Dewer's Hollow while they were out walking the moor. His therapist, Louise Mortimer, was trying to help him sort through the memories of that time and event, but he was still horribly afraid. "The hound," he said, "is still there. Black as pitch with eyes as red as flame. It stalks the moor and doesn't stop there. Lately, it even has snuck through my yard, setting off my floodlights. I swear," and here he shook, eyes squeezed shut tightly, "some nights I hear howling and it sounds like there are many of them- not just the one." 

John was not an easily frightened man by any means, but the way Henry described what he had seen, the breaks on his voice and sheer fear in his eyes- a chill raced down John's spine. Henry laughed and shook his head.

"You must think me mad. Everyone else does.... Sometimes I wonder if I am losing it."

John sat up straighter, making sure to inject as much firm conviction in his voice as possible.

"No. No, you're not mad. There's something strange about this place- always has been."

Henry looked up, surprise clear as day on his face. John drummed his fingers on the table, thinking it over. A sense of purpose rushe over him and it seemed to all suddenly be very clear to him.

"Listen, I'm going to help you get to the bottom of this. I don't know much about this myth and creepy hound business, but I was a soldier and a bloody good one at that. I'll see what I can find out there. If you can show me where to find this Dewer's Hollow on a map, and any other places you can think of that strange things have been going on, I will do my best- and mind you this is a promise- to get to the bottom of this."

Henry grabbed John by the wrist, shaking it once, twice in thanks, overcome with relief that someone was listening with something other than disdain or disbelief. 

"I have a map with some of the places already marked at my home. We can head over there and I'll fill you in on what to look out for."

"Lead the way"

Armed with a map and flashlight, John found himself that late afternoon traveling through the forest near Dewer's Hollow, looking for any sign of suspicious activity. He felt like he had gone mad, going off half-cocked into the wild after legends and ghost dogs for Christ's sakes, but it also felt like taking the bull by the horns. If he could face this, take on the shadows in the moor, then he could face the shadows hiding inside his mind. 

The moor was eery in the fading light, almost in the gloaming, and as he made his way straight into the maw of Dewer's Hollow, he began to have that awful and peculiar sensation of being watched. He was not alone.

Some sixth sense told him to look up at a ledge above him, directing the beam of his flashlight into the trees. There, half hidden in the mist, was a hound. He only caught a glimpse of it, before it slinked off into the darkness, but the sight made his blood run cold. No normal dog reached that size. The mournful cries of multiple animals began to rent the air and he snapped into action, bolting from the hollow and back into open ground. He needed to find Henry and those two men he had spoken to earlier. Henry was far, far from mad.

It was early evening by the time he made it back to the pub and he managed to find Lestrade by some strange stroke of luck, talking to a distraught woman.

"Lestrade! Sorry, miss. Lestrade! You need to speak to Henry Knight. It's real. It's-"

"Henry?"

The woman looked up, tears streaming down her face. "He's gone, headed off for the moor just a few minutes ago. He's completely snapped, said hounds tried to break into his house. He's got a gun."

John blanched, dread running through him.

"The hounds were in the moor. I just had to book it out of there like a mad man. He's gone there by himself?!"

She looked at him in a mixture of concern and bemusement. "You believe that nonsense? Henry is not well! He's-"

Lestrade cut in. "No time for that Ms. Mortimer. John, go on ahead. I'll get my reinforcement and meet you there."

John nodded and left once more, laughing to himself at the sheer ridiculousness of his day. He'd just left the moor to get away from the beasts and he was heading instantly back into what was appearing to be a trap. John grinned. A holiday indeed. He didn't even notice when his ever present limp began to fade away.

John reached Dewer's Hollow once more to find Henry there, screaming at the surrounding shadows, a pistol clenched shakily in one hand.

"What do you want from me?! What do you want! Just leave me be. I've done nothing to you."

"Henry!"

Henry whirled around, tears streaming down his face. "I can't take this anymore. I can't."

John held up one hand placatingly. "A DI is on his way with help. We're going to deal with this in any way we can. Just put the gun down, Henry."

Henry sobbed, about to say something else, when a resounding growl issued forth from the darkness. Henry turned slowly, horror turning his face an ashen grey.

"Oh god it's the hound!"

It appeared forth from the darkness like a specter from the ether. Massive in size, it's eyes burned with an unholy light- red against the murky night. The mist of Dewer's Hollow seemed to coil around the beast, only partially concealing its great bulk from the two men below. Henry took off at a run, prompting John to swear and try to shoot the beast as it chased after the fleeing man. But his bullets went through the devilish creature, ricocheting off the surrounding trees and landscape! John could only watch helplessly as the fleeing young man began to lose ground to the creature, expecting at any noment for him to be taken down and devoured. Suddenly, a retort came from behind, a streak of silver flashed through the night, and the beast yelped, leaving off its chase. Lestrade stepped out of the dark, his features flickering strangely.

"I wouldn't run, if I were you."  
John's eyes flitted over to the side, drawn away from the pack of snarling ghostly black hounds before him to the figure appearing out of the shadows next to him. A tall, thin man with a mess of black curls appeared out of the darkness, bare torso gleaming against the fog and his lower half indistinguishable in the blackness. The voice was familiar. 

"Sherlock?"

No more was he the posh human man of before, hidden behind coat and scarf. Great stag antlers with moss covered torqs embedded in their widest part stretched forth from his head, and his lower half- his lower half was still bipedal in utility, but furred and hooved like a deer. The surrounding hounds let out resounding whines at his appearance, some flinching away or breaking off from the pack completely as he turned his gaze upon them. 

“Interesting. Well, this proved to be a simple case to solve.”   
Lestrade’s head snapped around towards Sherlock, eyes alert and luminous in the dark.   
“What is it? …..

“Show yourself! No need to be shy. …"

A man stepped forth from the darkness, dressed in hunting gear and looking much like a middle aged man.

"You dare try to harm the Cwn Annwn of Gwyp ap Nudd?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed as if in boredom, much to the surprise of the others.

"Hardly. I wouldn't risk the ire of that particular God. You, on the other hand, are not him."

The man drew himself up, clearly enraged, but Sherlock interrupted him before he could get more out than a breath.

"Richard Cabell, a squire who sold his soul an has been haunting the moors since around 1677. Followed by a pack of wishthounds- black ghost dogs, unlike the white dogs with red ears used by the god you are impersonating. Have I missed anything?"

The fake God sneered, features ugly beneath the mask of rage marring his face. 

"You may know who I am, but that won't stop me from tearing the four of you apart."

"Hmmm." Sherlock titled his head side to side in a 'perhaps' sort of manner, before grinning in a truly frightening manner. 

"The only problem with your plan, simple and to the point that it is, is that you lack the strength to carry it out."

The ghost stepped forward, an incredulous laugh spilling from his lips, but he was brought up short by Sherlock's next words.

"Look closely at me. What do you see?"

The ghost sneered. "A sad excuse of a hybrid. Some far creature in over his head."

"Ah." Sherlock smiled and steepled his fingers below his chin. "And if I told you that you were merely an infant- no, a glimmer in the eyes of the cosmos- compared to me- how would you respond now?"

Wariness crept into Cabell's eyes, taking in Sherlock's appearance anew. It was clear that he was beginning to sense that he was not seeing the full picture.

"My name, Cabell, is Sherlock. But allow me to enlighten you. That name is not one you, or most people, would be familiar with. One such as you would know my older self. A God the Celts called Cernunnos." Here he looked at the ghost dead in the eyes, somehow appearing to be even less human than before. Cabell blanched, taking a few steps back at this pronouncement while Lestrade chuckled darkly from where he now stood beside John.

"So," and here Sherlock began to stalk forward, hooves moving soundlessly and elegantly across the leaf-strewn earth, "you are clearly outclassed and outmatched. It would behoove you to leave while you can."

The ghost snarled, his remaining hounds working themselves into a lather.

"I am not running just because some pantheon reject thinks he can tell me what to do! Sic' em boys!"

Sherlock shrugged, eyes cold and alien. "Suit yourself."

With a dramatic violent clawing motion of his hands, he raked his hands up through the air, causing the forest around them to come alive. Trees groaned and snaked thick branches rapidly around yelping hounds, dispersing them into mist and broken bits of sound. Cabell looked on in horror as his pack was swallowed up by the moor itself, the land laying claim to the myths that haunted it, until only he remained.

Fearful for his life, the specter dropped to his knees, hands clasped in a silent plea to be spared. Before him, however, was nature itself, and it was a cruel judge, taking no prisoners and showing no mercy when it felt wronged. It was Lestrade who stepped in and stopped Sherlock before those hands swept down in the motion of the executioner's axe, stopping the bloodshed.

"I'll take it from here, Sherlock. This, after all, IS my area."

Cold eyes stared at him, before the normal intelligence and indifference returned.

"Do as you like. He won't be a problem here anymore."

Sherlock glanced over at Henry, directing those final words to him, before walking over to John.

"You are made of rather stern stuff, for a human." Sherlock looked down at the shorter man in a considering manner, keen gaze curious and bright. "You are returning to London?"

"Ah, yes," John choked out, still stuck on all that he had witnessed. Sherlock nodded, a low hum issuing from his throat. "Perhaps we will bump into each other again then. I have plans on returning there myself. A pleasure meeting you." Here, he held out his hand, which John readily took. 

"To you as well."

Years down the road, John would mark that moment as one of the defining points in his life. At that point, however, he was merely concerned with digesting all that he had witnessed and how his world had changed. He would come to see that the adventure hadn't quite ended for him soon enough. Till then, he bid his goodbyes and left the moor with a sense of quiet in his mind that had been missing since he had been invalidated.

He didn't limp once.


End file.
